The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Hadith ran towards the slaver shouting a war cry from the bottom of his lungs. It seemed not to impress the slaver as he still grinned and just waited for him to charge. In the end Hadith just slowed down and stopped. The slaver had won the first heat by depriving him of the advantage of the momentum. Hadith was beaten before he got into the action. The slaver looked confident, standing comfortably and having his blade ready to strike. They took a couple of side steps both of them, trying to look at the possible weaknesses behind the defence of one another.

Suddenly the slaver made his first move. The hit came in just as Hadith had borrowed a second to see how Athwen was faring. At the same time they all heard the cry from a few yards away from them "I'm here. I'm coming!"

The hit forced Hadith to take a few steps back. He had time enough to put his blade between him and the swing but was too late to have any strength of his body behind it. As soon as he had balanced himself the second hit came on him. Now it was fiercer than the one before. Hadith still managed to hold his blade in front of the new one, but this time he fell down with the force of the hit.

Hadith was waiting for his death as he had tumbled down on his back. So this is it, this is the way I will die... as he noted the slaver to hesitate for a moment. He was attending to the cry they both had heard just a moment ago. That gave Hadith the precious chance to rise up and to come back to defend himself. He was badly bruised even though he had managed to parry both of the hits the slaver had swinged on him. His back was aching and his feet felt like jelly again. Still he bravely challenged the slaver again.

"Come on! I'm not dead yet and others will finish what I can't!" Hadith called his opponent. The slaver looked unsure for a second but then came towards Hadith with a kill in mind. It was no longer a cat toying with a mouse but a hungry wolf on his pray, ready already to take on the real challenger just behind his shoulder after finishing this easy kill. The slaver was after Hadith's life now, seriously.

Hadith fell into an elementary trick. The slaver seemed to invest all his powers to a strike from up-right to down-left and Hadith tried to counter it with all he could spare, bringing his whole body to take on the impact. But just before the hit the slaver suddenly swerwed his sword from under Hadith's blade and ducked his blade under Hadith's. Hadith was going forwards with full effort, his side open, as the slaver got somewhat back to his balance, from which he in fact had not been far away at any moment unlike Hadith he had tricked into jumping forwards. The slaver hewed his sword backhanded on Hadith's defenceless side, aiming for his throat.

The hit missed Hadith's neck by inches landing on his shoulder. Hadith could feel the bones splintering under the sword. Blood bursted to his face. He felt dizzy and his vision started to darken. He felt the ground as his knees hit it and then his face slammed to the dry sand.

Hadith turned his head to see what happened. The slaver was about to give him the finishing hit when he suddenly turned around. Hadith heard it too. A horse was charging straight towards the slaver! Hadith tried to lift his head to see what was happening but his vision was blurring. He felt the ground trembling from the pounding of the heavy hooves.


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Folwren's Post

Athwen knew at once that the advantage in this fight would be completely on the slaver's side. He was man, fully built and probably fully trained in fighting. Hadith would go down quickly with no hope of ever getting back up again. She had not a moment to loose in figuring out something to help him with, at least until Dorran reached them. But how? How was she supposed to stop a man twice her size from killing another? She looked around her, hoping to find something that she might use as a weapon.

Her eyes lit upon the slaver's horse. A plan instantly leaped into her mind. She ran forward to him and grasped his rein as he shied away from her. She spoke calming words to him, whispering reassuringly in his ear as she gathered his reins above his neck. As soon as he stood tolerably still she thrust her foot into the stirrup and launched herself upward into the saddle. Once there, her feet could not reach the stirrups, but that did not worry her. She clenched her knees tight against the hard leather of the saddle, turned his head about with one rein and urged him on with her heels in his side.

As the horse made the turn, Athwen could see the two combatants. Hadith was stumbling, his sword arm was far out in attempt to regain the balance he had lost. The slaver stepped forward and his arm swung upwards. Athwen bit back a cry and drove her heels into the horse just as the man's curved blade came slicing down.

The rushing, pounding hooves of the horse seemed to drive the emotion from Athwen's mind. She saw Hadith fall. She watched as he first collapsed to his knees and then fell onto his face in the ground before his enemy. Though the thought that he had been killed before her very eyes flashed through her mind, Athwen did not think to be sorry for him, she did not think of anything, except bearing down on this slaver.

The man looked up, hearing her approach. An expression of surprise filled his face and he stumbled back out of the horse's path. Athwen passed him, but her hand was already on the tight rein and in a moment, she and her horse were turned about again and charged once more upon the slaver.

[Tevildo]

Dorran felt as if his arms and legs could barely move. There had been another time when he had fallen into a pit of mud. It was just like that now. The more he struggled to hurry the slower his body went. One part of his mind calmly saw Hadith hit the ground and slump to the side, while the other was focused only on running forward as quickly as he could.

He saw his wife mount the horse and charge forward against the slaver. The latter stared at her in complete bewilderment. Neither his brain or his ego would accept the fact that he had been bested by a woman with hair the color of gold. Once more she charged and once more he barely managed to swing out of the way. This time, he recovered his wits enough to leer back at her. He dropped to one knee and quickly squatted next to Hadith. Ripping his small knife out of its sheath, he held it directly above the young man’s throat and then brought the tip down to make contact with the skin. Slowly he drew the blade forward leaving a thin trail of blood. He looked up at Athwen and growled. “You’re a feisty one. Come down off that horse and keep me company. You wouldn’t want to see this poor boy get hurt?” He waved his dagger menacingly over the young man’s chest, directly pointing at Hadith’s heart. Athwen pulled up her mount and stared in disbelief, reluctant to dismount but afraid to race forward again.

By this time, Dorran had dropped down and flattened his body against the ground, inching forward across the sand. His head was pounding dismally from the wound he had received the day before but his mind was perfectly clear. A beast like this did not deserve to live.

For the first time today luck was with the Rider of Rohan. The slaver was turned away and had no idea what lay behind his back. Hurtling his body forward with a savage will, Dorran landed on top of the man. They rolled over on the ground three times. Kicking and snarling, the two remained locked in a deadly embrace, each attempting to gain the advantage and sweep in for the kill. Finally, there was a grunt and a cry and the slaver’s body went slack as Dorran thrust his weapon deep into the man’s chest, burying it up to the hilt. .

Without waiting to inspect the man’s body more closely, Dorran immediately raced over to his wife as an avalanche of words gushed out. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you? I couldn’t clear the trench. Thank goodness Hadith was here to help. You didn’t do too badly yourself. This is the second time you’ve beaten me in a horse race. It's a good thing you did..” He turned to embrace her and spoke quickly. “You must get out of here. Hadith needs your help and others as well.” He pushed Hadith up on the horse and straddled his body over the back of Athwen's saddle. the man stirred and gave a low moan.

“Ride now to the grove where the women and children are. You will find some protection there. We will bring you the wounded as quickly as we can.”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl and the others in his group soon became disoriented with camp now covered in ashen dust and sand. They were rapidly separated not only by the blinding gale, but by the rumor of horses around them, which they heard and followed, but could not see. And as Carl pressed himself against the wind, searching for his fellows, out of the brown haze a figure dashed past the hobbit, all the while glancing over his shoulder. It was soon plain to Carl, that the runner was neither archer nor slaver, but the youngster Kwell. And the boy ran with such dispatch, that Carl whirled about, bow ready as he struggled to see in the murk, what ever it was the boy was running from, before it over took him.

That split second stretched interminably as Carl waited with dread. For he had already guessed what this bogy might prove to be, and had until this point, envisioned dealing with Hamin from the comfortably long distance a bow usually afforded, and preferably unseen as well. But unfortunately, all he could do at the moment was hope for the best, for the wind was blowing so hard, his arrows were all but useless. And being no match for the slaver, the best he might do was buy the lad some time.

The hobbit set his jaw. Out of the storm lumbered a huge figure, the silhouette of a curved blade discernable in his bandaged fist, as the man bolted after his prey. At the site of the slaver, a wave of adrenalin coursed through the hobbit’s veins, and he aimed his dart well in front of the pursuer. With all his strength he stretched taught the string and shot into the wind. The arrow sped to its mark, but proved too feeble, for the man slowed down, pulling the arrow easy from his shoulder. “The brute’s an Oliphant!” Carl muttered in amazement, quickly sprinting after the retreating figure, before he had the chance to become lost in the confusion.

He had not gone more that a few yards when he saw that Hamin had closed in once more on Kwell. Grabbing him by the shoulder he spun the boy around roughly, threatening him with his sword. With haste the hobbit stopped, taking aim again, this time targeting the softness of the slaver’s lower back. Creeping up as close as he dared, he let the arrow fly. But the arrow was buffeted by the wind, embedding itself in a more southerly region to cause less harm than the hobbit had hoped.

It was as if Carl had tapped the slaver on the back to announce himself, for Haman whipped around, quickly jerking Kwell in front of him to serve as a shield. And spying the puny archer before him he snarled, “The sand fleas are biting today, are they? But we know how to deal with them! Just squeeze ‘em until they crack open, eh boy?” The slaver gripped Kwell tighter in the crook of one arm, lifting him off the ground, and the boy shut his eyes against the pain, futilely pushing at the thickly muscled arm that encompassed him. Relaxing his hold a bit, Hamin laughed while Carl grimaced, his mind transposing on the slaver the sinister image of joy a cat might experience while playing with a doomed mouse.

The slaver raised his dark eyes, fastening them again on Carl, whose shuttered involuntarily. “Tell me boy, who is this hero shivering in front of me? This fairy orcling, who hasn’t the strength to spear a rabbit with his pathetic skewers!” Now the hobbit’s fear had been quickly overtaken by horror and indignation at the treatment of Kwell, but these words fanned a fury in his heart and set him simmering. He had to get Kwell out of the man’s reach, and he had to keep his head.

Feigning a lighter heart than was in him, for with his arrows spent Carl was at a loss what to do, but he was determined to do something. He dropped his bow to the ground. “I’ve met you before Hamin, and you can’t fool me. No, not for a minute!” the hobbit said with all the pluck he could muster. “For all your swaggering I know you’re good for nothing, not even to play nursemaid to a pair of starving children. See with all these men about, you pick on the smallest among them.”

The slaver’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward as if to have a better look at Carl, the corner of his mouth twisting into a grin. “What a dangerous game this sand flea plays!” he sneered. Fast and gleaming Hamin’s sword suddenly cut through the air where the hobbit had stood. But Carl had many an older brother to hone his reflexes, and he ducked to avoid the blow, springing up again to attempt disarming the brute, as he followed the stroke through. But the hobbit was quickly shook off, and flung to the ground with ease. And just as Carl was recovering, a rag blown on the wind, hit Hamin's face, clinging stubbornly to his head and neck.

Immediately seizing the opportunity, Kwell rammed his elbow into the slaver’s injured ribs, gaining his freedom as clutching his side, Hamin bowed for a moment, his sword dropping to the ground. The slaver pulled the cloth from his face, and was about to set off again to recover the boy, when Carl launched himself, scrabbling up the slaver’s broad back, grabbing handholds in the foul cloths and hair. “Quick Kwell, run!” the hobbit managed to shout to the boy still standing there. But a second later he was hurtled up over Hamin’s head, landing flat on his back.

Carl squinted at Hamin towering over him, but could think of no more taunts to distract the man. For he found he could not breathe, but like a landed fish he lay gasping, helpless. The slaver put his boot on the hobbit stomach. “Who are you, sand flea?” he asked again, slowing applying pressure. Finally, Carl’s lungs filled, and he blurted out, “The fish that got away. I’m the fish that slipped through your fingers, yesterday in the pit!” The slaver growled, pushing down harder, and Carl clutched the heavy boot, hoping that Kwell had gotten away.

[Brinniel]

The slavers approached swiftly, with Athwen leading the way. As if the storm didn’t make visibility bad enough, the horses’ hooves picked up even more dust, making seeing nearly impossible. Shae could see, however, the shapes of the men as they neared the tunnel. Shouts arose as they discovered their mistake, and several collapsed into the trench. Shae wondered for a second what had happened to the healer—she seemed to disappear with the rest of the slavers. But she had no time to worry, for chaos was beginning to ensue all around.

Only half of the slavers actually fell into the trench; the rest were able to stop their horses in time. The half dozen or so men were mostly attempting to calm their frightened steeds—and it seemed to Shae that this small group was in utter confusion more that anything. The timing would be perfect. Without further hesitation, the woman kicked into the mare’s sides, and charged forward, yelling. She could hear the others in the cavalry following, but she did not look back.

Her target was the first mounted slaver in visible sight. Shae took him by surprise as she thrusted her long knife into his right shoulder. Though the man yelped in pain, as she removed her blade, she realized she did not do as much damage as she hoped. Countering her attack, the slaver lifted his own sword in his left hand. As he swung, she lifted her weapon to block the attack. As the two blades collided, Shae swayed backwards, surprised at the man’s strength. Her puny blade whimpered under his powerful hold, and her hand shook as she struggled to keep her grip. The next few swings Shae was able to dodge with simple maneuvers with her horse. She lashed back in response, but every time she lifted her blade, it was met by the slaver’s. The man’s strength was overwhelming, and as she fought him, she could feel herself slowly sliding out of her saddle. Shae tightened her muscles and her left hand clenched the reins as she simply struggled to stay mounted. As she dodged another attack, Furie jolted suddenly, and with her inexperience, Shae lost all control.

She did not remember hitting the ground, but as she lay sprawled out on the dirt, she immediately realized what happened. Warm liquid flowed freely from her forehead and into her left eye. Her left wrist was contorted into an unnatural position, and Shae instantly knew it was broken. The woman blinked several times, still feeling rather woozy from the fall. She barely looked up in time to see the sword coming right at her. She rolled away just in time and grimaced as a sharp pain hit her left side. A cracked rib perhaps. Surprised to find she was still clutching her long knife in her right hand, Shae managed to stand up in time to block the second swing. She found herself face-to-face with the same slaver she had been fighting with, who stared menacingly back. He had dismounted from his stallion and seemed quite anxious to kill her. Though she was now injured, Shae found it much easier to fight on foot, and for a few minutes the two swung and parried in a circle as if it were a dance. He may have been stronger, but she was faster. But before long, exhaustion set in, and the man’s strength and his better weapon were too much. He caught her by surprise and her weapon suddenly escaped from the clutches of her fingers. Shae managed to dodge the next two blows by instinctively ducking. On the third swing, the slaver stumbled and his blade entered the earth. He quickly yanked it out and lifted his sword, prepared for one final attack, but he was not fast enough. As he lifted his weapon high in the air, the main suddenly gasped in pain. He looked down to find a throwing dagger protruding from his heart.

Khamir had always praised Shae for her swift throwing skills and her perfect aim. The woman watched as the man collapsed and died almost instantly. She removed the dagger from his chest and sheathed it. Her long knife was nowhere to be seen. Shae picked up the slaver’s sword and studied it. It was a fine blade, by far one of the highest quality she had ever seen. She removed the sheath from the man’s belt and attached it to her own, placing the sword inside it. During those few minutes of rest, Shae could feel the pain and exhaustion set in. Blood continued to pour from the gash in her head covering the entire left eye. It should’ve been a problem, as she was blind in that eye anyway, but with one eye sealed shut made it even more difficult to see out of the other one. She wiped some of the blood away with one hand, and took several deep breaths in an attempt to rejuvenate herself.

At that time, the woman took the opportunity to finally observe her surroundings. Several bodies were sprawled out in the distance, both slavers and ex-slaves. Not far away, many still fought, struggling for their lives, but Shae could not recognize who was where. As she looked around, Shae was surprised at how few slavers there were. She had seen their camp the other night, and remembered its size.
This can’t be right. I know there were more of them than this. Could they still be coming from behind?
And then a cold thought entered Shae’s mind, sending chills down her spine.
No.
But it was possible, very possible in fact. The slavers weren’t complete idiots—surely they realized that the ex-slaves would do whatever possible to protect the women and children. And if they were desperate enough (and surely they were), they could easily…

Shae gave out a low whistle, seeking out through the clouds of dust for her mare. It did not take long to find her—Furie had not traveled far. She remounted and clenched her teeth as the pain returned. Her wrist was now swollen to twice its size, and though Shae knew the smart thing would be not to use that arm, she needed both her hands. Gasping from the pain, the woman struggled to wrap her fingers around the reins and test what strength and mobility she had left in her wrist. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough. Using her other hand for support to hold onto the reins, she kicked hard into Furie’s sides. Instantly, the horse and its rider were off, heading towards the direction where the women and children were stowed away.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The old man distributed the few daggers he had managed to scrape together and asked everyone to gather rocks that could be used as weapons in case the slavers attacked. Aiwendil appointed Grwell to lead the older youth if an assault occurred, while he and Rôg would try and safeguard the mothers who had young children in their care. Hopefully, the battle would be decided before any of the attackers discovered that the deserted grove of boulders was actually a haven of refuge for those who could not fight.

With the winds churning up so much sand and dirt, Aiwendil could barely make out the shadowy outlines of the women and children crouched silently behind the rocks. It was impossible to see if any slavers were approaching. The noise of battle blew in from the far perimeter of camp. The sounds that had been so discoradant and jarring to those fighting by the tunnel now melted away to a comfortable drone. The old man sat down beneath the shelter of the massive boulder to get out of the storm. With nothing to do but wait, the minutes crept by slowly. Aiwendil closed his eyes to rest; twice, his head dipped and nodded, and then he slept. One anxious roar from across the camp blasted through to where the women and children waited. As the sound tore into the darkness, the old man reluctantly opened his eyes and sighed, struggling to push back his weariness. He still felt uneasy. His cousin Olorin would have known exactly what to do. Of all the istari , Aiwendil had been the one least equipped to deal with war or the high affairs of men. "Why me?" he muttered in frustration.

For years, the wizard had occupied a good piece of his time trying to guess why he had been forced to stay on after the War of the Ring, when all his brothers had vanished or returned home. He had been left behind with no explanation other than a few gentle words from Olorin when they had said their goodbyes in the house of Tom Bombadil. Olorin had ridden on to the Havens, and Aiwendil had been left pondering his fate, something he had done quite frequently in recent years. Before leaving, Olorin had insisted that Aiwendil try and remember the instructions Manwe had given him when they met in the garden of dreams the night before he sailed. Despite Aiwendil's every effort at remembering, that scene in that garden had proven stubbornly elusive.

At least Rôg was with him now. The wizard privately acknowledged just how important the maenwaith had become to him. Plus, it had been Rôg who had pushed him gently onto a kinder path, one where he had not only learned to care for the forest creatures but sometimes also men. Someday he must thank the young man for his gift of friendship. As a second howl went up from the east that was even more urgent than the last, Aiwendil sternly reminded himself that this was not the time or place for woolgathering.

At that instant, hard words had rattled inside his old head, bringing an unwelcome message he had been hoping to avoid. Staying close to the ground as he inched over to where Rôg was waiting, the old man hastily explained, “Bad news. Only part of the group took the bait. The others have disappeared. Lindir has no idea where they are. They’ll try to send a few men through to help us. But nothing is certain. Rôg, could you tell the band of children to remain alert and stick together? I’ll speak with the mothers.” With that Aiwendil turned and disappeared.

[piosenniel]

‘Right, then.....everyone gather round me here. And you older boys and girls, gather up the littlest ones or herd them over.’ Rôg waved his arm at the rag-tag assembly of youngsters, drawing their attention to where he was standing. They came stumbling toward him, the edges of their sleeves or of what served as their thin cloaks wrapped over their mouth and noses, and their eyes half closed against the swirling sands.

‘Let’s get you tucked in here, in the overhanging shelter of this boulder. Can you squeeze in, take a seat with your backs against it. And the older ones, please tuck the smaller ones in against you.’

He pointed to four or five of the older children, one who had brought their sharp-pointed planting sticks along. ‘You, now, let’s arrange ourselves in front of those who are sitting. Keep your sticks at the ready in case any of the slavers come near us. Poke and slash at them is you can, otherwise retreat back beneath the shelter of the boulder, with the pointed ends facing outward like a prickly hedgehog.’ Rôg gave his charges an encouraging smile.

‘It will give me what time I need just in case I have to fight them off.’

He had looked away, toward where he thought the attack might come, before he had time to see the wondering frowns which wrinkled many of the youngsters faces.

[Nogrod]

The thundering of the hooves came back again. Hadith’s mind was suddenly seeing something as last night flashed back to him with vigour. He saw the rider suddenly appearing from the darkness, charging towards him. But unlike then, now Hadith was frozen to his place, unable to avoid the oncoming spear. He waited for a hit which never came as he fell deeper into the abyss of his faltering mind.

There was a vague figure of a man bending over him, quietly calling his name with a soothing tenderness in his voice. Father? Dad? … Don’t leave me alone! Take me with you! … it hurts so much… am I dying? There was concern, a sorrow even in the man’s eyes as he tried to ease the young boy’s anguish: “Fear no more my son, all is going to be well and you’ll have peace.” Then the face disappeared just to re-emerge with a totally different tone. Now the face smiled to him confidently, almost laughingly: “Hold your head up my little, it’s just a scratch! Tomorrow you won’t even remember it. Come now, we’ll go to see mom and fix it right away.”

Hadith felt a hand grasping his left shoulder. “Fath…”, he began, now half conscious. But the word never got uttered to the end as he realised that something was totally wrong. The grip tightened and someone turned him violently around to his back. Instead of a loving face of his father he met the grim expression of he slaver bending over him but looking sternly forwards. Hadith felt the blade on his throat. The slaver said something to someone, threateningly. Hadith couldn’t make out what was said but he felt the tone well enough. Then he passed out again.

Hadith laid on his mother’s lap, his head leaning comfortably to her belly. She held him firmly but tenderly in her arms and her fingers run gently over her neck. Hadith listened to the lullaby she sang in a low, hushed voice.

“Come, come, silent night,
show forth the starry height
of the heavens above.

Come, come, gentle dreams,
show the way to starry beams
that’ll carry you my dove.

Let go my love,
let go my dove,
fly high tonight
to home of the light.”

Suddenly Hadith was brought back to the reality as two men rolled violently over him. Someone’s knee thumped heavily on his wounded shoulder. The pain filled him, it overwhelmed everything. All went black.

Hadith felt himself being heaved on to the back of a horse. He tried to look around but saw only grey shadows. The pain on his shoulder had somewhat eased as he was getting numb. He tried to ask what was going on but couldn’t open his mouth. Finally, after being thrown on horseback he managed to open the curtain and to have some grip of the reality. There was that woman, Athwen on the saddle. He remembered her name. And there was a man, the Rohanian. What’s going on? They shouldn’t waste their time on me! … Hopefully they will get me to safety from here… Hadith was confused with his contradictory thoughts as the horse started carefully forwards. He gave up even trying to think any more and let it go just feeling the horse move under his numb body.